


Genesis

by protego



Category: Supernatural
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-22
Updated: 2021-01-31
Packaged: 2021-03-09 19:00:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,967
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27671054
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/protego/pseuds/protego
Summary: "The sheer enormity of what he's lost hasn’t hit him yet. He’s stuck right here, right now, in this place, in this form. He’ll never be able to teleport, never be able to conjure anything out of thin air, never be able to make another world. He’ll never see his sister again. He’ll never be God again. That’s all gone to Jack."A post-season multi-chaptered look at Chuck Shurley's life after he becomes human.
Comments: 6
Kudos: 5





	1. Chapter 1

_“And unto Adam He said, [...] cursed is the ground for thy sake; in sorrow shalt thou eat of it all the days of thy life; Thorns also and thistles shall it bring forth to thee; and thou shalt eat the herb of the field; In the sweat of thy face shalt thou eat bread, till thou return unto the ground; for out of it wast thou taken: for dust thou art, and unto dust shalt thou return.”_

**— Genesis 3:17-19, KJV Bible**

* * *

He doesn’t know how long he stays where they abandoned him, lying on his stomach in the dirt, his white suite smeared with dust. The white suit he conjured on a whim, for his final showdown with the last Winchesters. Now, it’s all he owns in the world. The clothes on his back are all he has.

They left him with nothing, in the middle of nowhere. Well, not _nowhere_. He knew, before he lost everything, the exact longitude and latitude, the exact position he stood on this final planet. He knows that this is Pomona Lake, in Kansas. Now, that’s all he knows. All the indescribable, infinite, omniscient knowledge which used to fill his head is gone, and he can feel the edges of his awareness inside his skull, like the bars of a cage. The loss is incalculable, unbelievable, incomprehensible.

Where he used to be so transient, so temporary, barely physical in whatever place found himself, able to move from universe to universe, to move through time and space as easily as a human can step through a door, now, he is here, and nowhere else. He is lying in the dust, by the edge of Pomona Lake, right now, experiencing time in painful chronological sequence, and with every second that passes, he can feel his heart beating inside his chest, pumping the blood he didn’t have a few minutes ago around his body. The lungs that didn’t need air before are breathing, his eyes are stinging from the dust and the bright sunlight, his legs are weak and aching.

He’s _inside_ the machine he made. He’s been made flesh — incarnate, as the Christians say. That’s what they did to him.

He rolls onto his back, his eyes closed, his breath coming in deep, shuddering gasps. _Jeez_ , the sun is so bright — he can see colours behind his eyes. He groans, and wonders how long it’ll take for this body to die. Maybe he can just lie here until he dies. He won’t go to Heaven. He won’t go to Hell. He doesn’t have a soul. He never did. That never mattered before.

The sheer enormity of what he's lost hasn’t hit him yet. He’s stuck right here, right now, in this place, in this form. He’ll never be able to teleport, never be able to conjure anything out of thin air, never be able to make another world. He’ll never see his sister again. He’ll never be God again. That’s all gone to Jack.

And, in a way that nothing so far has, that sparks something inside him. _Jack_. That snot-nosed, immature, toddler. That speck of nothing, that stubborn spanner in the works which shouldn’t have existed. _Jack_ is God. Lucifer’s brat has all of _his_ power, his control, his knowledge. It doesn’t make sense — it shouldn’t have been able to happen — but it has. It has.

And he imagines Jack watching him — everywhere, and nowhere, at the same time. He imagines that brat watching him lying on his back in the dirt, every bit an old, frail, man. He remembers the sight of Sam, Dean, Jack, and Castiel, walking away, as he staggered and stumbled and called after him. The absolute, mind-numbing, all-encompassing terror of being left alone in the world. A spray of dirt and gravel flying up from the wheels of the Impala ( _man_ , he always loved that car. He knew every inch of her. After Sam and Dean, he loved her most of all) as they sped away, leaving him behind.

He can’t die. He can’t let them win. He can’t let them kill God. The _real_ God.

So, slowly — with an unbelievable, monumental, effort, that makes his muscles ache in protest, and his arms tremble as he steadies himself — he sits up. His palms are stinging as tiny pieces of gravel cut into them, and he winces with the sharp pain. A dizzying, disorientating, sickness fills his chest, and he’s pretty sure he’s going to collapse again, but he sways a little, and manages to stay upright.

And, with a groan of weariness and pain that goes right through him, he stands up. His legs shake so violently that he doesn’t think they’re going to support him, and he stumbled, and almost falls again. His eyes are burning with tears, and he puts his hands on his knees. This is all he is. He’s one tiny human, struggling to get to his feet.

 _I can’t let them win_ , he thinks.

And he takes a deep breath, and pushes his hands off his knees, and straightens up. His spine uncurls, and his shoulders draw back, and he’s standing as upright as he can. There’s a hunch to his back that he inherited from his vessel, an awkward slope to his shoulders that wasn’t there when he was God. But he’s human now, and all of the imperfections are screaming inside him. The gravel-filled, tiny, cuts on his palms sting, the sunlight makes his eyes squint, the uneven rocks dig into his feet, even through his sneakers.

But he’s standing. He’s not lying in the dirt like a pathetic, weak, worm.

Before he lost everything, he knew how far he was from the nearest building. And, just because he’s lost his powers, that doesn’t mean he’s forgotten. A little beyond the treeline, along the highway — exactly two miles away — he knows there’s a Gas ‘N’ Go. It has two pumps, one public toilet, several packets of chips and Funyuns, and off-brand sodas. The attendant’s name is Joe.  
  
He knew all that, without even needing to _do_ anything. But now, all he can see is the treeline, and the path the Winchesters and Jack and Castiel drove away on, All he knows is what he can sense, and feel. But he remembers the knowledge, and he has to use it.

There’s food and water, and shelter from the sun, just two miles away.

And so, slowly, painfully, driven by nothing but spite and fury and hatred, Chuck Shurley begins to walk.

* * *

As he staggers down the gravel path, surrounded by dark, tall, trees on either side, stretching up into the cloudless sky, he thinks.

He remembers Becky, with her wide, doe eyes, telling him, _You can’t do this_. The way her brow furrowed as he looked at her, and felt absolutely nothing. He remembers sucking Amara’s essence into him, feeling her Darkness bond with his Light, and finally fuse together. Balance, at last. Together, in harmony, like she wanted. The scenes from his long, long, life, all floating through his mind like a cheesy clip show. Singing on the stage for Metatron, as, on the streets of Hope Springs, people who his sister had killed rose again, because resurrection was no big deal for him. Not back then. Staring at the last line of _Swan Song_ , and taking a sip of beer, and typing, slowly, definitively: THE END.

He remembers standing, invisible, watching Sam and Dean and Jack wander a dead, barren world, unable to comprehend the fact that they’re the only people left, the only life left. The cold, triumphant, glee he felt at watching them, knowing that they were suffering, knowing that they deserved it, because they just wouldn’t take a knee. They wouldn’t surrender. They wanted everything to be on their terms.

Well, they haven’t won yet. He’s not dead. He’s still alive. And he’s going to come for them.

He takes a few steps quickly, and then one slowly, randomly stopping and starting as his legs get used to carrying his human weight, and his aching, tired, bones pick up the rhythm of each step. He never knew how hard it was for humans to just _walk_ , to keep taking step after step to get to where they’re going in a painfully slow, boring, way. The ground never changes — gravel, and more gravel. Sometimes, there’s a pile of dog shit, or a few leaves, or sticks. He spots the tire tracks of the Impala a couple of times, but, after the first sighting, they too blend into the monotonous, grey, ground.

His stomach feels empty, hollowed out, and he knows why. He’s _hungry_. For the first time in his existence, he needs to fill his empty stomach. And his throat is dry. The inside of his mouth feels like it’s covered in a thin layer of fur, and it tastes like something disgusting, something that makes him think of moss, and green things.

It’s disgusting. Humans are disgusting. And now, so is he.

The trees thin out, and now there’s nothing except a long stretch of highway, with fields reaching out at either side, all the way to the horizon. In the grand scheme of things, Chuck knows that this is nothing — this is tiny, insignificant, but he sees it through his human eyes for the first time, and he feels as if his lungs are expanding.

 _Wonder_ , he thinks.

It’s been a long, long, time since he looked at one of his creations with wonder, but that’s what he feels. The expanse of space, the grass reaching as far as the eye can see.

And, a few yards away, the Gas ‘N’ Go stands. An unnatural square, a man-made thing, in the middle of this natural beauty. The two fuel pumps are glistening in the midday sun, their black hoses looking like straws from this distance. Chuck squints, but he can’t make out anything else.

He forces himself to keep moving. He makes his feet take another step, and another, and another. He’s so close to food and water, now, to shelter. Maybe he can sleep there, on the floor. There’ll be air conditioning, and a bathroom. Maybe he can wash this furry taste out of his mouth, and start putting himself back together, so he can take care of Sam and Dean, and then... and then —

Okay, one thing at a time. He’ll cross that bridge when he gets to it. One thing at a time.

Every small step brings him closer, and, eventually, he can see the bright white lights inside the store, the automatic doors, the shelves and shelves of packaged food and cans and packets. Enough to last him for days, if he rations himself.

And then, he spots something that should definitely not be there. Something that has to be the result of Jack, already using his God-stolen powers, already interfering, writing his own story. And Chuck feels such a wave of hatred and fury and disgust that he stops walking, and just _stares_.

Because, behind the counter, is a greasy-haired, lanky, teenager. Someone who’s not Sam, not Dean, not Jack. Someone who Chuck erased. Joe, the gas station attendee.

The kid must be bringing people back from where he put them. It’s obvious. Chuck can’t believe he didn't realise this would happen. Of course that dumb, happy-go-lucky, idiot brought everyone back. That was just the kind of Hallmark bullshit he’d be into. And Sam and Dean probably ruffled his hair and said _Well done_ , and they all went to go get a beer at the Bunker.  
  
Jeez, he hates them. He might love Sam and Dean, but right now, he hates them.

His stomach feels like it’s touching his spine now, he’s so hungry, and he knows, Joe or no Joe, that he has to have something to eat. So, he takes the final few, exhausted steps forward, and the automatic doors to the Gas ‘N’ Go slide open.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to anyone who chose to read this! I'm not sure exactly where it's going, but I hope you stick around for the ride. I'm really not happy with the ending of Supernatural (like pretty much everyone!) so I wanted to write something to ease the pain.
> 
> Comments and Kudos are a writer's sustenance, and they'd be very much appreciated.


	2. Chapter 2

_“Where there is only a choice between cowardice and violence, I would advise violence.”_

**—** **Mahatma Gandhi**

* * *

_Man,_ Joe thinks, staring at the empty aisle of chips and sandwiches and soda, _I hate this place._

The air conditioning isn’t cool enough, and it exhales warm, muggy, air every so often, wheezing loudly. The fan overhead is making a _shwushing_ sound as it spins, every few moments — _swush, swush, swush_. The large, round, clock on the wall is ticking, cutting up every second with its sound. The midday sun streams through the large, glass, windows, hot and bright and merciless.

No one has been in since his shift began, at eight in the morning. He looks at the clock. It’s now 1pm. 

This is one of those middle-of-nowhere gas stations, the kind of place no one comes by, unless they’re on their way to someplace else. It’s got a stale, lonely, feeling, like it shouldn’t be here, surrounded by all these trees, along a long highway. It’s the sort of gas station someone might drive by and think _huh, wonder what that’s doing way out here_. The usual customers are truck drivers, doing long trips ’cross country, or people who’ve run out of gas, and are just looking to top up to get to where they’re going. The sandwiches have been sitting in their cardboard triangle packages for weeks, the chips feel stale, even when they’re within their sell-by date, and the soda is warm.

Joe looks up at his reflection in the security mirror behind the register. It’s all they’ve got that passes for a security system — a shitty place like this doesn’t bother with CCTV. There’s nothing worth stealing.

He’s helping out his uncle over the summer. It’s his uncle’s place. _Get some work under your belt_ , Uncle Reg said. _It’ll do you good_.

This is all he’ll amount to anyway, and everyone knows it. Joe isn’t much. He’s getting average grades, because that’s who he is. Average. He’s never had a girlfriend, he’s never even kissed a girl. He’s from some backwater town in Middle America, where everyone knows everyone, and newcomers are judged, and nobody ever leaves. As he stands in his uncle’s gas station, staring at the minute hand ticking by, Joe knows this is as good as it gets for him. This sad, tired, store is where he’ll be forever. He could move to Michigan, Ohio, Wisconsin, but he’d find the same homogenized, fluorescent-lit, too-warm, gas station, and he’d wind up there too. Heck, he could move to friggin’ Canada, and he’d _still_ end up in a place like this.

 _Yeah_ , Joe thinks again. _I hate it here_.

The automatic doors slide open with a bright _ding_ , and he looks up.

A guy is standing there. A guy in a white suit, with messy brown hair, and a beard. The weird thing is that he’s covered in dust, like he’s been rolling around in the dirt outside, and let it dry on his blazer. There’s something pathetic about him, like one of those homeless vagrants you look away from in the street or something. Everything about him sends a message. He has nothing except what he’s wearing. He’s not carrying a rucksack. His hair is tangled, his skin is dry and flaking off his face in shards, he’s squinting from spending too long outside, and his shoes are covered in a thick layer of dirt and orange dust.

Joe straightens up, and moves out from behind the register. His heart flutters with nerves — he’s never had an _incident_ happen before, not on his watch. The most exciting thing that ever happened while he was here was when a kid dropped her chocolate bar on the ground outside, and wouldn’t stop screaming until her dad bought her another one.

But this guy? This guy spells trouble.

“Hey, mister,” Joe says, awkwardly, taking a few steps away from the register, towards the stranger..

Since walking in, the stranger hasn’t moved, or said anything. He’s just standing there with his eyes closed, bathing in the warm air the conditioning unit is pumping out, breathing slowly, almost like he’s meditating.

“Mister?” Joe says, approaching slowly. The man is short, and he doesn’t _look_ threatening, but still. There’s something weird here. “D’you need to use the phone?”

The guy still doesn’t say anything, so Joe raises his voice a little. “Do you need to call someone?”

And then, suddenly, the guy opens his eyes. He stares at him, and Joe has a weird sensation, like this guy _knows_ him, like he’s known him for ages — his whole life —but it’s weirder than that. He feels like he’s being judged, _because_ this guy knows everything about him. It’s so freaky that he stops advancing, and just stares back at the stranger, blinking, his mouth slightly open.

“Joseph,” the man says, in a disgusted, weary, voice. He sounds like every teacher Joe’s ever had, giving him a shitty piece of homework back with a barely passing grade on it.

“Yes,” he replies, stupidly, confused. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he tells himself this has to be a crazy prank, set up by his uncle. But he knows. He _knows_. It’s not.

“You shouldn’t be here.”

“Yes I should.” It’s all he can think to say, in his bewildered state. “It’s my shift. 8 ’til 4.” He pauses, and then adds, “Sir.” He has no idea why, but he feels like he should.

“No.” The man stares at him, and Joe notices that his eyes are a vivid, unreal, shade of blue. Like the clear sky. “You really shouldn’t, kid.”

Joe wonders if he’s going crazy, because he has the feeling he should fall to his knees, or bow his head, or apologise for… _something_. He has no freaking clue what. This is just some guy, right? Just some insane homeless dude who walked in off the street, with his dirt-covered suit and his messy hair. But he knows, deep in the back of his brain, that he’s not. That, as soon as the automatic doors slid open, and this stranger walked in, something happened. The world as he knew it changed,

He doesn’t know what to say, so he doesn’t say anything. He just stands there, staring at the stranger. The guy seems to expect this, or not care, because he wanders over to the stand where they keep the drinks and cracks open a can of soda. He takes a long, loud, gulp of it, like he’s dying of thirst, and Joe wants to say that he should pay for that before drinking it, but he knows he can’t. He just stares in silence, watching the man’s every move.

When he was a kid, he’d been playing in the garden, and he’d seen a snake, lying in the grass. It was huge, dark brown, with a triangular head, and a flickering tongue. It had seemed enormous — he was only seven at the time — and it had slithered lazily across the garden, from one side of the grass to the other. Joe had stayed totally still, watching it go, too terrified to move. Being so close to something so dangerous had made his heart beat fast, and his skin prickle.

That’s how he feels now, watching this guy walk over the counter. He knows he should call for help, or try to reach the automatic doors. For fuck’s sake, they’re _right there_. He could make a run for it. But he just stands, watching the man walk around the counter. For a second, Joe’s stomach drops, because there’s only two reasons he’d go back there. But the guy doesn’t search for anything. He just turns the key Joe left in the register. _Click_.

“Hey —” Joe protests, weakly. The man looks up, and raises an eyebrow at him. Joe falls silent.

 _I should do something_ , Joe thinks. _This is stupid_. But he still can’t move, even as the guy reaches into the register and scrapes out coins and notes. They don’t keep much in there, but all he can think is _Uncle Reg is going to kill me_.

The man slips the money into his trousers pockets, and then he picks up the can of soda again and takes another drink. He strolls around the counter, completely ignoring Joe, and picks up one of the reusable bags hanging on a hook on the counter. Joe doesn’t make a sound of protest as the guy starts walking the aisles, filling the bag. He spins on the spot to watch him, feeling like he needs to keep the guy in sight at all times, still feeling that old feeling he did as a child, when the snake slithered by. _Danger, danger, danger_.

He fills the bag like he’s going camping or something. Bottles of water, cans of soda and cans of beer, sandwiches, energy bars, wet wipes, tissues, a small flashlight that’s meant to go on a keychain. The bag is quickly filled, and the guy stares down at it for a moment, and laughs to himself. Joe has no idea what’s funny, and he doesn’t want to make a sound, because the guy seems to have forgotten he’s there, and he doesn’t want to draw attention to himself.

Now he’s done with that, the man heads back to the counter, and Joe feels his blood run cold. He already took the money, so there’s only one other thing he could want back there. And, sure enough, the man starts feeling under the counter, with a frown, squinting a little, almost in disgust.

“Hey man,” Joe says, hurriedly. “Look, I let you take what you want. Just… head out now, okay? I won’t even call the cops. This is my uncle’s store. I’m just minding it —” The words are coming fast, frantic, and his heart is speeding up now. He can feel it pounding so hard it hurts, and something’s rising inside his chest, like bile. “We don’t have CCTV. And I don’t remember faces. I’m not good with them. I won’t tell anyone you were even here. I’ll say I took the money myself.”

The guy ignores him, and finds what he’s looking for. He withdraws the gun Joe’s Uncle Reg keeps stuck to the underside of the counter. He looks at it in total revulsion, like he hates it, and points it straight at Joe.

Joe doesn’t think. He raises his hands to the ceiling, shaking all over. “Look man, just — just go, okay? I won’t tell anyone, I swear — I’m no one — I’m nothing —”

“Y’know,” the guy says, conversationally. Joe stares into his eyes, and they look weirdly out of focus, like he’s not even looking at him, but through him. “Before, I’d have been able to get rid of you like _that —_ ” He snaps the fingers of his free hand, and Joe flinches. All he can think to do is keep this guy talking, so he nods quickly.

“Yeah, yeah, man,” he replies. “I hear you. Totally —”

“Shut the fuck up,” the guy says, flatly. His eyes slide in sharp focus again. “Talking never got you anywhere, Joe Taylor.”

Joe doesn’t ask how he knows his name. It doesn’t matter. What matters is the muzzle of that gun, pointed right at his face, and how steady this guy’s hand is, and how he never got the hell out of this shitty town, and he never got to _do_ anything, and he’s going to die in this goddamn store with its sickly neon lights and its ticking clock. He’s going to die.

“Please don’t,” he whispers, shakily. “Oh God —”

“Nah,” the man says, and he smiles a horrible, empty, smile. “Not anymore. Now I’m just Chuck.”

It happens too fast for Joe to react. He’s dead before he hits the floor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay between chapters! Life gets in the way sometimes, and the more I thought about the end of Supernatural, and the end of Chuck's arc, the more angry I got. But, after a pause, I'm back to it! Thanks so much for the comments and support on the first chapter, and thank you to anyone who's sticking with it!


End file.
